I’m sorry you died in my arms.

The blood, oh the blood, it was everywhere. Your new top, the one I thought was so cute and dainty, was turned from off-white to bright red. Before I knew what I had done, my stained hands had transferred it to your hair, making it matted and sticky, so dark against your face going pale.

Time sped up, or had it slowed down? I wasn’t sure, but by the time I looked up he was still there, stepping back in slow motion. The gun dangled precariously from his outstretched hand. His face seemed to hint that his sanity was in a similarly precipitous situation. Pity almost entered in at the sight of him, though it was lost in a sea of rage that flowed from the single fleck of red on his forehead, a tiny taint of your blood.

The blood, oh the blood, it was everywhere. Hands pink with innocent blood turned dark with the gore of his guilt. I caved in his face, broke his ribs to pieces. Three souls now lost to oblivion, to death, or to sorrow.

I’m not sorry he died at my hands.